


Missing scene before the trial

by bee_obsessed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Platonic Relationship, or whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_obsessed/pseuds/bee_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from Reichenbach, inspired by the shot in front of the mirror, I'm sure you know which one I'm talking about. Sherlock needs to relax and John gives him a massage. John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing scene before the trial

John walks into the living room to find Sherlock, already dressed, sitting in John's armchair with his hands steepled under his chin.  
He can only see his shoulders from where he's standing, but he doesn't need to see Sherlock's face to guess what he must be feeling. He's worried, tense, possibly even scared.  
It's the day of Moriarty's trial. Of course he's tense.

John walks closer and dares to put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly in a touch that says I'm here, we're in this together “They'll find him guilty, you'll see.”  
Sherlock sighs and shakes his head “It's too easy. He must have one last trick up his sleeve. It's too easy.”  
“Maybe we overestimated him” John suggests. Sherlock chuckles in something that is very far from amusement. “Then the joke is on me”.  
John sighs “He's a bloody psychopath, Sherlock. Remember what you told me? Geniuses like to have an audience, and he's getting one. Maybe that's all there is to it. Some criminals want to get caught. End of story.”  
“Maybe” Sherlock concedes. John doesn't need to see that raised eyebrow, he knows it's there, he can picture it. He has every reason not to believe him, to be fair.  
It's a warm day, but it's overcast. Every time a passing cloud erases the squares of sun on the carpet it feels like a gloomy foreshadowing.

John realises his hand is still on Sherlock's shoulder. It moves on his own accord, squeezing and rubbing lightly, reassuringly. He retracts it immediately, realising it stopped being a friendly squeeze a couple of minutes ago, and has now turned in something far too intimate.  
Sherlock shudders at the loss, but John doesn't notice. He's heading towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Tea or coffee?” he asks.  
Sherlock doesn't hear him. His attention is focused on an indeterminate point in front of him.  
He comes back to the present when John's hand enters his visual field, holding a cup of tea over his shoulder, in front of his chest.  
It's only a slip second before Sherlock snatches the cup, catching his wrist. Before John has time to react, his hand is resting on Sherlock's shoulder again, this time held in place by strong fingers.

Sherlock's body is rigid, standing unnaturally upright. Every muscle is tense and contracted.  
John squeezes and feels a knot of wires carved in marble under his palm.  
He sighs. The hell with propriety, Sherlock is a block of nerves, he needs this.  
Both hands on his shoulders now, John starts to give him an awkward massage. Awkward at least until he stops caring about awkwardness. He gets bolder as he feels Sherlock's muscles give way. His fingers move in concert, strong hands kneading, thumbs joining at the back of his neck.  
“You need to relax” he whispers, more a justification to himself than a suggestion. Because Sherlock is relaxing already. His posture changes, his head hangs forward, hanging looser on his neck.

Sherlock looks exposed, vulnerable. The power he has over him right at this moment... it's almost intoxicating. A snap of his fingers, and he could break his neck. John knows how. Sherlock knows he does.  
Sherlock, the man who never drops his guard, who calculates potential threads and escape routes as soon as he enters a room, who never loose control. Ever. Not even when he sleeps. John is amazed by the power he has over him right at this moment. That Sherlock lets him have. The trust that he's showing with such a simple thing as his posture.

John sighs and lets his hands run where they may, which is mostly to Sherlock's neck. He rubs and caresses the pale skin. He considers its texture. Sherlock's skin is porcelain, so why is it so warm and soft? It should be smoother, colder. John sweeps away the thought, because of course his skin is not china. He's a human being after all. A human being.  
John knows it of course, he knows Sherlock better than anyone else, he knows that he's not a machine. But it's only now that he truly feels it, the humanity of that strange being he's come to idolise.

It's not quite conscious, the choice of sliding his fingers beneath the shirt collar. Sherlock's top button is always undone, so he can reach under the shirt with ease. The second button goes too, as Sherlock shifts to remove his jacket and opens up a few more buttons. He's allowing John better access.  
John swallows.  
He wonders if Sherlock knows what he's doing. Surely, it's only practicality he's thinking of. But John isn't. If Sherlock isn't aware of social conventions and thinks this is probably a normal way for friends to touch, John knows it's not. At least for him it turns out it's not.

It could be, if he were able to look at that neck and think only of the most efficient movements to make the muscles relax. But no.  
He sees a pulse point and strong tendons and he think of bites, kisses. Tongues swiping teasingly. He almost stops, scared of his own reaction, but then Sherlock tilts his head back. His eyes are closed, his jaw slack, his breath slow. He's more relaxed than he's ever seen him. He sees him like that and cannot stop.  
Should stop staring at him at least, but from his vantage point he can look down and see every twitch on Sherlock's face. Not to look is too much to ask.

His strong fingers keep kneading into now yielding muscles. Now and then he dares a lighter rub, a caress that has nothing to do with a friendly massage. He feels guilty, as if he's taking advantage of him. Sherlock has clearly never received a massage in his life, he doesn't know where the line is. His hands are now definitely caressing and heading dangerously towards his chest. He must put an end to this.  
He asks “Ok? Are you calm now?” Sherlock hums. “Drink your tea then, we need to get going”.  
Sherlock's voice is deep and breathy “It feels good”.

Fuck.  
John stops himself because that voice, and that mouth, pliant and slightly open... right there.  
He's going to bend down and fucking kiss him if he doesn't stop now, immediately.  
It takes all of his willpower to take a step back and hastily remove his hands.  
Sherlock frowns and opens his eyes “Why did you stop?”. His voice is still husky and his words are slightly slurred. “We need to get going”. John's voice betrays him, it's shaky. He hopes Sherlock won't notice.  
He doesn't. Emotions are, after all, not his strong suite. John thanks his luck for that. 

Probably best.

Sherlock puts his jacket back on and stands up. He looks in the mirror over the mantel as he redoes the shirt buttons.  
John appears behind him. He looks at John in the mirror.  
John looks back at him.


End file.
